The wooden planks underfoot were uneven, cracked in places, and slick with blood that had spilled down from the upper levels of the siege tower.
Orcs kept pouring up from below.
Gardon stepped forward to block them.
The orc on the right swung its axe first. The blow came in hard, but the tower's cramped interior betrayed it—the blade caught on a support beam with a dull clang.
In that instant Gardon's axe struck. He gripped the haft right beneath the head, almost like a dagger, and drove it upward in a short, vicious cut.
The orc's elbow sheared clean off.
"Aaaaaagh!"
Another orc's spear tip scraped across Gardon's breastplate, metal screeching on metal.
Gardon's left hand snapped out and seized the shaft. The orc refused to let go, and the two of them strained against each other on the slanted ramp, pulling hard.
Gardon took another step down, shifting his weight forward.
He yanked the spear—and the orc with it—toward him. The creature lurched off balance. At that moment Gardon's knee slammed upward.
A wet crunch. Broken teeth sprayed. The orc's jaw shattered. Its head snapped back.
Gardon kept hold of the captured spear, twisted it, and hurled the orc sideways. It crashed into the one behind it, and both tumbled down the ramp.
A Dawi soldier stepped up beside him, shield raised to cover the lower approach.
Another Dawi hurled a short spear downward. It sank into the shoulder of the next orc climbing up; the creature staggered sideways, off balance.
"Keep moving down!" Gardon shouted.
He readjusted his blood-slicked grip on the axe.
Deeper inside the siege tower.
The ramp grew darker. Acrid smoke rose from below, and the flickering torchlight inside the narrow shaft wavered.
One orc leaped up the slope like a beast. Gardon dropped low; the orc's legs whistled over his head. The Dawi behind him surged forward, slamming his shield into the creature's back and driving it into the wall with a heavy thud of armor on stone. An instant later the Dawi's axe came down, splitting the orc's spine.
Lower still.
Two orcs came up side by side, shoulders touching because the ramp was so tight.
Gardon met the first axe blow with his own. Steel rang. The second orc thrust its spear at his flank.
Gardon shortened his grip again, slid the long haft under the spear, and flicked it aside. At the same time he planted his left foot firmly.
His axe rose.
The blade crashed through the eye-slit of the orc's helmet and bit deep into the skull. He planted his boot on the creature's chest and shoved; the axe tore free in a spray of blood.
The second orc charged. Gardon closed the distance instantly, body to body—too close for a full swing. He drove the haft across the orc's throat, pinning it against a thick support beam.
He leaned in with all his weight. Bone cracked. The orc's body went limp and slid down the pillar.
Two more Dawi soldiers stepped forward, shields locked across the ramp. Three others behind them readied their weapons, breathing hard, armor spattered with orc blood.
"Grand Warlord!" one of them called.
"The exit's just ahead!"
The end of the ramp.
The lowest level of the siege tower came into view. Faint daylight leaked through the half-shattered doorway.
One last orc lunged up. Gardon reached the bottom and met it.
The creature roared and brought its weapon down.
Gardon pivoted half a step. The axe thudded into the wooden ramp instead.
His own blade answered—rising from below in a clean arc that split the orc from chin to forehead. The creature toppled backward.
The lowest level.
Gardon stepped through the broken doorway and out into the open.
A cold, damp wind thick with mist met him. It carried the mingled stench of blood, burning oil, and wet earth.
The narrow space between the siege tower's wooden frame and the stone wall opened before him.
Behind him, five Dawi soldiers emerged and took up positions at his back.
*****
The base of the siege tower.
Gardon stepped out through the entrance.
Low mist clung to the ground. Weak daylight filtered between the tower's timbers. Moisture from the moat beaded on his armor. The smells of blood and burning wood he had breathed the entire way down refused to fade.
His boots stopped.
He had come out on the tower's flank—the tight gap between wooden scaffolding and the curtain wall. Mist pooled here like a shallow lake.
Farther along the wall, he saw Rilbeur.
The Muwa lay on his side, one wing half-spread. A single arrow had punched straight through the wing; the barbed head protruded from the far side, buried in the dirt, while the broken shaft jutted from the inner side. Rilbeur's eyes were open, unfocused but still aware. His beak moved faintly, trying to form words that would not come. He was breathing.
Several winged soldiers lay beside him. One had its eyes closed but its chest still rose and fell. Another had its eyes half-open, wingtips twitching. A manifested hand clawed weakly at the earth, grasping for something it could not reach.
Gardon glanced back.
The five Dawi soldiers had followed him out.
"Take Rilbeur and the winged soldiers back to the wall." he ordered.
The Dawi moved at once.
One knelt beside Rilbeur and examined the arrow. His fingers pressed gently on either side of the wing, testing the tear. The shaft had missed the bone. Pulling it straight through would only widen the wound. The soldier gripped the protruding end and snapped it cleanly. Rilbeur's eyes squeezed shut against the pain.
The soldier slid one arm under Rilbeur's torso. The Muwa's body was far lighter than a Dawi's. He lifted the wounded warchief onto his shoulder plate. Rilbeur's manifested hand reached out and gripped the edge of the soldier's pauldron, steadying himself so the motion would not jostle the wound. His eyes met Gardon's.
Rilbeur's beak moved again. A faint whisper escaped.
"…Poison. The arrow… it's poisoned."
Gardon gave a single nod.
The other soldiers moved to the remaining winged soldiers. The one with half-open eyes clutched the back of a Dawi's leather straps with its manifested hand, fingers locking tight—not to burden, but to hold its own weight steady. The soldier tested the load, then straightened carefully.
The Dawi carrying Rilbeur looked up.
More Muwa lay scattered in the mist along the base of the wall—some still moving, some not.
The soldier stepped closer to Gardon.
"Grand Warlord… there are more winged soldiers farther down."
Another Dawi scanned the fog.
"We don't have enough Dawi to carry them all."
A brief silence.
Gardon answered curtly.
"Take everyone you can right now."
The soldier hesitated.
"And the rest…?"
"I'll buy the time."
Gardon said, eyes turning toward the moat.
"Go."
The soldiers exchanged quick glances.
One nodded.
"We'll be back soon."
Another added.
"We'll warn the wall. More Dawi will come down."
Gardon nodded once.
"Hurry."
The Dawi turned and filed back into the tower's entrance, carrying the wounded Muwa. Their boots thudded on the wooden planks, then faded into the darkness.
*****
Gardon turned.
Something whistled from above.
Two throwing spears.
They flew low and fast, nearly horizontal, streaking past Gardon's head toward the orcs massing at the moat.
One spear punched through the leading orc's breastplate and kept going, skewering the orc behind it as well. Both creatures fell together. The second spear tore through another orc's throat, dropping it backward into two more. Three orcs tangled and collapsed, blocking the charge for a moment.
Gardon looked up.
Banda.
The warchief leaned out over the parapet, another spear already in hand. Beside him, Dawi archers stood in a steady line. While Banda's spear flew, arrows hissed downward into the orcs below.
Orcs staggered as shafts struck thighs and shoulders. One arrow slammed into the leg of an orc racing straight at Gardon; the creature dropped to its knees.
Gardon's gaze swept to the moat.
Beyond the bodies littering the ground in front of the tower, the bridge over the moat began. It was wide enough for several Dawi to stand abreast. Orcs were pouring across it in a solid column; beyond the far end, more waited in the mist—too many to count.
Banda's third spear flew.
It struck the side of an orc's helmet, snapping its neck sideways. The creature fell and dragged another down with it. For a heartbeat the bridge was clogged.
Gardon ran.
He sprinted across the open ground between the tower and the wall. An orc lunged from the side. Gardon twisted without breaking stride; his shoulder plate smashed into the creature's face and sent it flying backward.
His eyes scanned the ground as he ran.
Two of Banda's spears lay embedded in the dirt among the fallen orcs, shafts still quivering.
Gardon kept his speed, snatched the first spear free as he passed, then the second two strides later. Both came up clean in his hands.
Now Gardon ran with two throwing spears gripped tight.